


Idiots in Love

by Johnlockedness, Storiesfromthebluebox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Dominant John, Established Relationship, Experiment, Fingerfucking, Foreplay, Horny Sherlock, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Prostate Massage, Subordinate Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:19:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnlockedness/pseuds/Johnlockedness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storiesfromthebluebox/pseuds/Storiesfromthebluebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock feels horny and a neat little idea pops into John's head. Sex in the kitchen of 221B ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idiots in Love

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written together with my good friend Storiesfromthebluebox (thegirlinthedirtyshirtt on tumblr). This is our first collaboration.
> 
> We want to thank Ivyblossom for inspiring us to write in first person. 
> 
> Gorgeous cover by watsonwarrior. Consider us blown away!
> 
> Enjoy :D

Restless day today. Sherlock seems to be even more fidgety and agitated than normal. He paces up and down the room, sits down on his chair for a few seconds, his fingers drumming on the armrest, then stands up to pace up and down some more. My eyes follow him around the room from above the newspaper I’m trying to focus on. I’m trying really hard to concentrate on an article about yet another European bank that’s gone bankrupt and its disastrous consequences in these times of economic crisis, and not to pay attention to Sherlock’s lean body that’s clearly visible from under his dressing gown – oh God, he’s probably not wearing pants, is he? I’m not sure how to feel about that. Yes, all right, we have sex, but that doesn’t mean it is all right to parade through the flat like a catamite.

Focus, John Watson. Focus.

Damn that bloody lean body. When was the last time he ate? Probably not in days. When was the last time I’ve seen him have breakfast? He didn’t have breakfast this morning. He just wandered through the room playing the violin.

I can’t help but stare at him. Who could? He’s endlessly fascinating. The hard lines of his body, the way he moves, all graceful and smooth. 

Now, I recognize this sort of behaviour, and it’s usually the kind he displays whenever he’s bored due to lack of a (good) case. He's like a whirlwind raging through the room, sulking and mocking like a three year old child. But there’s something different about him now. It seems like there’s something even more urgent and impatient in his movements.

I decide I can’t do this. I put down the paper and stare him right in the eyes.

“All right, Sherlock. What’s going on with you?”

Sherlock extends a hand. “Don’t speak”.

I frown. “What?”

“Your voice, it’s distracting me.” 

I stare at him stupidly. “What do you mean?”

The look in his eyes. It’s so intense, sometimes I swear they see the world in x-radiation. Eyes that can look straight through me.

“Sherlock?”

He sighs and slumps down into his chair again.

“Oh, John. Sometimes I envy you so much. It must be so simple. What do normal people _do_ when you feel like this?” He says, gesturing his hands in a near dramatic manner.

“Feel… how exactly?” I ask slowly, ignoring his insult. 

He just looks at me hard, like he’s trying to tell me something. God that penetrating gaze.

“Sherlock, are you horny?”

“I’m sorry?”

My lip curls in spite of myself. “Aroused. Are you?”

He huffs. “How could you tell?” He seems slightly annoyed that I’m able to make this deduction.

I smile. “I’ve known you a bit longer than today.”

Our gazes shift away from one another. We sit in silence for a few seconds, before we look at each other once more. Intent clear on both our faces and I feel myself flush.

“Bedroom?” He asks hopefully.

“Kitchen.”

 _“Kitchen?”_ He sounds surprised, but amused.

I stand up, smirking to myself in triumph, and am striding to the kitchen. Sherlock follows. As soon as I enter the kitchen I feel his arms around me, his lips in my neck. Like always when he touches me, when he turns to me in unexpected moments, my whole body shudders. I turn around, and our lips lock.

He kisses me hard and rough, devouring my tongue. Sherlock groans in approval. That sound. Shit. Kiss me, Sherlock. Kiss me, never stop. My hands slide into his hair. Fuck, that magnificent silky hair. 

“Oh, Sherlock.” I sigh. 

He hums happily against my lips. 

I push him up against the counter before I break our kiss. I pull the knot from the belt of his gown and take a few steps back. My eyes are fixed upon the beautiful creature in front of me. He is wearing, as I suspected, nothing but his Bordeaux dressing gown. It hangs loosely from his shoulders. His erection is flushed. It is always a bit crooked, with a slight diversion to the right. I love that little flaw. I love all flawed details of his flawless body.  
His scrotum hangs heavily between his long pale legs. I’ve often marvelled at his relaxed state. Unlike most men, his left testicle is higher than the right. Now they are both drawn up tight, the seam very visible.

“John.” His baritone sounds desperate, waking me from my quiet reverie. 

And if kissing him wasn’t enough, his voice does the trick all right. My trousers feel tight. He stares down the length of my body and gasps softly in anticipation.

“Go on,” he whispers and I unbuckle the belt of my trousers for him. My eyes never leaving his gaze. “Strip for me.”

I do. I unbutton my jeans. He reaches for me and I step forward. His fingers opening the top button of my shirt collar. I shiver as his fingers touch the sensitive skin of my throat. 

“John.” He murmurs against my lips. “John.” And the next one is closer to my ear. His tongue is wet and warm and rather delightfully tracing the shell of my left ear. I shiver as he starts nibbling the lobe. His fingers move downward over my shirt buttons, tugging half of them open impatiently. My fingers tremble as I work my jeans down my legs. They hit the floor with a muffled thud. I curse softly as they strap my ankles together. “John.” He whispers again. “I need you to…”

“What do you need Sherlock?” And I press firmly against his body. Locking my mouth with his. I kiss him madly. Blinded by lust. He uses his teeth and tongue and I nip back every now and again. My cock trapped between the fabric of my pants and his thigh. His erection juts against my belly. “I want to hear you say it.” I groan.

“Fuck me.”

I grip him hard by the hips, my fingers digging into the silky material of his dressing gown. He moans and I bury my face into his neck and inhale deeply. I feel him shiver under my hands. My hips rut against his as I lick a trail over delicate skin where his neck meets his shoulder. Our cocks rub against each other, separated only by a layer of fabric. We shudder together. He rocks against me, his mouth seeking mine and he kisses me demandingly. Impatient, always so impatient. The feeling of him against me is incredible.

Sherlock’s hands slide down my back and they both grab a handful of my buttock and he squeezes tightly. I relish it. More, Sherlock. Never stop.

I kiss down his neck (he lets out a pleased hum). Shift to his throat, over his Adam’s apple, down to his chest and I suck on his nipple (hums louder). Bending his head Sherlock whispers into my ear. “Now John, fuck me hard, now. Make me yours, claim me.”

I lift my head to meet Sherlock’s mouth with my own and he groans. The kiss is a little violent in its ferocity, but neither of us care much. We rock our hips together and we moan into each other’s mouths (beautiful). I break the kiss moments later to mutter “brace yourself” against Sherlock’s swollen lips.

He does so, gripping the edge of the countertop hard as I let out a grunt and lift him before depositing him onto the counter. Sherlock’s long legs instinctively wrap around my waist. He draws me in. I shuffle forward. My belt rattles against the floor. I ignore it. Focussing on the man in front of me instead. I dip my head, kiss and lick his navel. He inhales sharply. I move up to his nipples and tease the sensitive tissue with my teeth and tongue. I make quick work of my shoes and socks and kick them out of the way. The tiled kitchen floor is cold beneath my feet. I don’t care. I step out of my jeans (tripping slightly in my frenzied state), while working Sherlock’s nipples. His body trembles (like mine). Excellent.  
I kiss him once and he watches me as I kneel before him. Awe. Lust. Adoration. Anticipation. His cheeks are flushed. It stands out against his pale skin. I smirk cheekily. Breath in his musky smell. Yes Sherlock, you know what’s coming. I nibble softly at the base of him. (A moan). Sherlock bucks his hips a bit at that. I know what he likes. 

One of his long legs drapes across my good shoulder. It’s a comfortable weight. It feels secure. A sign of trust. I have tamed the beast. A wave of pride floods my mind. 

I dart out my tongue and lick upward, I trace a vein, pulling his foreskin up with the motion. My tongue retreats and I raise my eyes to meet his gaze. He is biting his lower lip. He is gorgeous. “John.” And it’s a plea. I work his foreskin down over the glans with my fingers and my tongue laps at the slit, licking up a drop of pearly white fluid which has gathered there. He tastes like rain, like sunshine. Salty yet musky and something very Sherlock which I cannot identify. I never want to identify him. He is my crime scene. My cold case. I never want him to stop astonishing me. 

Sherlock moans above me. He tugs at my hair. Encouraging me. He braces himself against the countertop with his other hand. 

My tongue circles around his cockhead, soft like velvet, before I take him in deeper, (a full groan). His glans pushes against my palate and my tongue plays with his frenulum. He feels heavy in my mouth. Very present. I may not be a musician, but I can play him like he plays the violin. Chuffed.

“John. Ah!” So vocal, always so very vocal. I exhale a shuddering breath through my nose.

I release his cock with a vulgar popping sound. Music to my ears. And to his, judging by his expression. A nip at the base of him. I bury my nose in the nest of dark curls and inhale. God he smells fantastic. I look up at him, deviously. I move my head to the side and rub his prick against my cheek. “You like that?” I ask fondly and exhale against his underbelly. I am fascinated by the heaving muscle. 

He bites his lip and nods. Sherlock groans loudly as I take him in again. I watch his face as I suck; his eyes close, his mouth opens. He throws his head backwards, exposing his throat. His hand grips my hair tightly. Not hurting me. A silent request.

Sherlock bucks his hips and I move my hands to keep him steady. I move my head up and down. Pausing to tongue the crown or penetrating the slit with the tip of my tongue now and then. I lap my tongue at his frenulum with each up and downward stroke. I can make him come from stimulating that knot of tissue alone. I’ve done it before.

But I have other plans tonight.

God I would love to have him right now. I can imagine his face as I take him on this very sink right now. This whole kitchen thing plays out rather nice. Perhaps we should have sex in the kitchen more often.

Above me, Sherlock moans deeply. “Oh God, John!” His voice resonates in his chest, making the hairs on my neck stand upright. He cradles my jaw in his hand a few moments later. 

He gently urges my mouth away from his cock. “Too soon.” He pants slightly and it is almost a whisper. “Want to come with you inside me.” I shiver. And not from cold. 

I release Sherlock’s cock from my mouth and lift his right leg from my shoulder. I raise and meet his mouth in a kiss. Marvelling at our level heads with Sherlock perched on the countertop. His head rests slightly against the overhanging cupboards as we kiss. Long. Slow. Deep. Passionate. He can taste himself in my mouth. And it arouses me even further. Sherlock’s fingers unbutton the rest of my green checkered shirt and I cup my own erection through the cotton of my pants. I pull them down slightly and tug the waistband behind my balls. I give my freed cock a few tight strokes before I smooth my hands up and down Sherlock’s ribs. Unconsciously counting them as I do so. Sherlock is tugging my nipples and I reflexively mirror his movements. 

We moan into each other’s mouth at the simultaneous stimulation. He pinches my nipples with his nails. I growl. He smirks against my lips. I release his mouth and settle my hands upon his clothed shoulders. I peer around him. He deduces my intention. Sherlock shudders and squeezes his thighs tight around my waist. I reach around him, shoving the toaster and few empty mugs out of the way. Satisfied, I forcefully bite Sherlock’s neck to announce my contentment. Sherlock snarls (“Ah”). I grip his hips hard and pull him forward while sucking and licking the fresh mark. 

My mouth parts from his and I take a slight step backwards. I push Sherlock’s upper body down with my left hand and use my right arm to lift Sherlock’s left leg. I place it upon my right shoulder. His arse hangs slightly over the counter’s edge. His shoulders rest against the green tilted kitchen wall. Yes, beautiful. He looks so vulnerable like this. And yet, he does not. Not at all. I growl. Hunger must be showing in my face. Sherlock looks eager. The little cunt. He knows I worship him. That I can’t get enough of his body. I’m insatiable when it comes to him. And he knows. He takes advantage of it. Manipulative bastard. I give a funny sort of strangled sound.

I rake my fingers across his body, his chest is heaving. “God you are so beautiful.” My voice sounds alien to me and it makes Sherlock moan deeply. I feel his moan vibrating beneath my fingertips. 

“Fuck, Sherlock, your voice. What you do to me is not normal.”

“Fuck me John.” Sherlock urges. “I’m ready.”

I shudder violently. “Oh God, we need lube.” I desperately look around for any material that could be used as a lubricant, when I feel Sherlock’s hand grabbing my wrist and guiding my fingers down past his scrotum to his arsehole. 

My fingers brush Sherlock’s perineum on their way down. We both gasp loudly as my fingertips settle against puckered flesh. “Jesus Sherlock, you are wide open.” I probe his anus delicately with my fingers, finding slick skin. “Christ.” I groan incredulously. Sherlock rolls his head frantically as my left index finger enters him. I find little resistance though I cannot fathom why. My mind is dazed.

“You little slut.” I moan as I work two fingers past Sherlock’s sphincters, stroking inward. “Aaah! John, oh God!” Sherlock whimpers and I smirk as I work my fingers inside him. Flexing and probing the delicate tissue. I angle my wrist and find his prostate. His back arches as I tease the gland with the tips of my fingers. 

“You are enjoying this.” I breath. “You love it when I’m milking your prostate.” And just moments later the evidence is right under my very nose. Sherlock’s cock twitches with every inward stroke of my hand. I angle my hand again and a flow of clear pre-ejaculate oozes from the slit of his cock. 

Sherlock grumbles and gasps. He pulls me in tighter with his right leg, which he has wrapped around my waist. “Oh bloody fuck! Yes, more!” My own erection jerks as Sherlock takes hold of his own cock and tugs the foreskin over the glans. He squeezes the pre-come from his ureter. Fucking Hell. This shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does. But it does. Oh bloody fuck. He strokes himself tightly. And I notice it is in rhythm with my fingers fucking him. He squeezes his drawn up balls with his other hand (another keen moan). 

“John, don’t make me beg.” Sherlock pleads and I groan. I pull my fingers free from Sherlock’s arse. They are slick. I spit into the palm of my hand and give myself a quick once over. I hesitate for a split second. Then I use my left arm to coax Sherlock’s leg free from my waist. I place it on top of my bad shoulder. I will come to regret this later. I don’t care. Both of Sherlock’s legs are upon my shoulder now. I stare down at him. His arse cheeks tighten his arsehole in this position. I can’t help but shivering. This is going to be exquisite. Sherlock breaths a ragged “Oooh” and my body trembles.

I take hold of my cock and guide the head towards Sherlock’s anus. I rub the glans up and down the cleft from perineum to just below his orifice. During the third time my cockhead dips unexpectedly into Sherlock’s arsehole. I gasp softly, stilling myself and closing my eyes. I marvel at how open Sherlock actually is, even in this current position. This is mad. A strong urge of possessiveness takes me over. My ability to think properly has been cut off completely. 

“Fuck me, John!” Sherlock shouts below me as I sink down into his body in one deep thrust which leaves me buried balls deep. My eyes snap open. I grip Sherlock’s thighs hard with both hands. 

“Sherlock.” I’m whimpering. Jesus. “Oh Christ, you feel incredible.” Sherlock grunts in agreement and I move my hips backwards slightly. Pulling my cock out only halfway before thrusting it back into his body. My balls slap against the back of Sherlock’s arse. It’s obscene. But breath-taking.

We groan in unisons and I pull out all the way. I stare down at the man splayed before me. With a growled “Mine” I trust my cock right back in. 

“Yours.” Sherlock moans as I withdraw from his body again. I built up a steady rhythm of pounding. My heart hammers in my chest. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. All I can hear are the explicit noises of flesh meeting flesh with increasing urgency, Sherlock’s wanton moaning and my own ragged breathing. This is going too fast. I need to slow down for a moment. 

My vision blurs as I slow down. My left shoulder aches a little. “Sherlock. Oh Jesus, I’m so close.” I breathe. “You okay?” I ask as my hips pump gently into Sherlock’s open body.  
Sherlock’s cheeks are flushed and it has spread down to his chest. He nods and I wipe the sweat from my brow. I realise that I’m still wearing my shirt. Although it hangs open from my shoulders. Shielded by Sherlock’s thighs. I wipe my hand off on it. 

“I’m fine.” He says. “More than fine, John.” And it’s permission to continue. I smile and take hold of Sherlock’s thighs once more. “Good.” My hips snap up sharply into motion and I bury myself deep into Sherlock’s arse. He makes a very low sound which almost pushes me over the edge. Fucking Christ. But I persevere and I thrust my hips hard and fast. Interspersing with rolling my hips now and then. This lasts for a while. Until I feel I can’t take it anymore.

“Oh fuck. Sherlock, toss yourself off, I want to see you come.” I moan as I continue to drive my cock into Sherlock’s body hard. I can feel my orgasm building up in my balls. Inevitable. My hands move to grip Sherlock’s hips. I am thrusting short and frantic now. I’m close.

Sherlock obeys and starts pulling himself off desperately. The muscles in his arms flex under the skin as he jerks. I groan and Sherlock gasps and thrashes. I’ve hit his prostate. I angle my hips just slightly so I can stimulate the gland again. It is all Sherlock needs to send him over the edge. 

“John, oooh!” He cries out and his legs straighten. They are heavy on my shoulders. His toes curl and his cock twitches in his hand as he comes. “John, John, John.” He pulses over his hand and breastbone. Ribbons and droplets of come paint his flushed body. “Oh fuck, oh bloody Hell.” He breaths unevenly. Utterly spent. His chest is heaving and he wipes a hand over his belly as I continue to thrust my hips into him. “Sherlock.” I grumble. 

I lost the steady rhythm of my hips as Sherlock came and I growl at the sudden contractions of his body. It makes way for a desperate pounding. I don’t want it to end. But there’s no way back. I close my eyes and I can almost see stars. “So close, fuck, I’m so close.” I pant through gritted teeth.

“Let go, John. Come inside me.” Sherlock begs. “Breed me.” My eyes snap open and lock with Sherlock’s. I thrust erratically against him. And then I am very still. My body trembles violently after a second. I can feel my balls contract and my head falls back. I feel my cock pulse as I come into his warm body. My eyes close and my mouth opens. “Ah! Sherlock! Fuck!” My hips snap back into motion. Gentle. Loving. Lazy. 

A few moments later, while we both try to regain our breathing, I lift Sherlock’s leg from my bad shoulder. I roll it a few times before leaning to cup the side of Sherlock’s face with the palm of my right hand. My body is still connected with Sherlock’s. “Are you all right?” Sherlock asks. He is tender. So very caring after lovemaking. Not just after lovemaking come to think of that. 

“A little stiff.” I admit. “I’ll be fine. What about you?” I ask and I stroke the inside of Sherlock’s thigh with my other hand. I straighten to pull myself free from Sherlock’s body so I will be able to kiss him. “A bit sore.” Sherlock answers and he hisses as I pull out. Some ejaculate dribbles from Sherlock’s anus and falls to the kitchen floor. I smirk in satisfaction. “God you are so beautiful like this. Debauched is the word I would choose to describe you right now.” 

Sherlock grunts as I help him to sit upright. “I never liked poetry.”

I bury my head in his neck, still trying to find my breath back. My hands move up and find his face. I kiss him quickly a few times, then collapse in his neck again. My arms cradle him into a hug. His hands slip under my shirt and hold on to my bare back. We stay like this for a while, until we become aware of the uncomfortableness of the sink. I get off him and help him down. I pull him directly into my arms. His dressing gown falls off his shoulders. We stand like that for a bit, in the middle of our kitchen. Our naked and sweaty but warm bodies pressed together. We kiss lazily. Sherlock hums softly in approval. I love the little noises I can get out of him. You wouldn’t take him for it, but Sherlock is the cuddly type. He will never admit it, but he loves being touched and cuddled. Maybe even more than I do. I press my forehead against his cheek and exhale a quivering breath. “That was absolutely mind blowing.” I whisper. I feel him nod. I eye his dressing gown on the floor. The expensive material spoiled and forgotten. I giggle. “I’m afraid we ruined your gown.” I say, but Sherlock merely huffs.

A few minutes later we’re both cleaned up and in our dressing gowns (the blue one for Sherlock). We’re laying side by side on the sofa. Sherlock is compact in my arms, my hands sliding lazily through his hair. It is a tight fit, but not uncomfortable. He looks as content as I’ve ever seen him. We share this moment of peaceful satisfaction. I go over the sex we just had in my head again – because God. It was good. Amazing – as something slowly starts to dawn on me. 

“Wait, Sherlock…?” I mumble. “Did you realise we haven’t used any lube?”

“Yes we did, of course we used lubricant.” Sherlock mutters.

“No, we didn’t.”

“John, I think I would recall such a futile detail as not having used any lubrication when being penetrated from behind.”

"I didn't penetrate you from behind."

Sherlock sigh. "Metaphorically speaking."

I let it sink in for a moment, inspecting his face. “Oohh”, I say. “Ohh, I see”.

“What?”

“You planned this, didn’t you? Lubing yourself up, acting all innocent? You knew perfectly well what you were doing, didn’t you? You just _wanted_ sex”.  
He looks at me hard for a few seconds, then the corner of his mouth curls up in a smirk.

“It worked rather well, didn’t it?”

I can’t help but giggle at that. Cheeky bastard. “Yes, yes it did”. Sherlock’s face breaks into a smile and a chuckle escapes him. Before we know it, we’re laughing. Laughing heartily. My chest bursts with joy at this madman in my arms. I did mention manipulative, didn’t I?

“But you did feel aroused just then? It wasn’t all performed.”

“I wasn’t performing John. I was merely prepared.“ Sherlock yawns. A clear sign he does not want to have this conversation. But I persist. A Sherlock talking about his feelings is rare. And I confess I rather enjoy coaxing him out of his shell.

“Then, what was that all about?” I query, continuing to stroke his hair. 

“Mmmh?” Sherlock responds. His eyes are closed and he is very near to dosing off.

“You know what I mean, you twat. That display in the living room just now.”

“Didn’t like it then?” Sherlock asks lazily, keeping his eyes closed and shifting his head to urge me to continue my petting motion.

“I didn’t say that.” I answer, carrying on to stroke Sherlock’s hair. The silk curls comb easily through my fingers. I nuzzle his cheek. “What exactly did you feel.” I ask, sincerely inquisitive.

Sherlock’s brows furrow in thought. "Frustration. Anger. Ready to burst. Like a yammering voice in my head that wouldn't shut up.” I stare at him before snickering and breaking down into a fit of laughter. “Only you would feel that way when sexually aroused.”

Sherlock just huffs, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He yawns. “Idiot.”

Dreadfully contagious, yawns. I can’t help but mirroring Sherlock and I add. “I love you too.”


End file.
